


I will be your guardian (DISCONTINUED)

by all_4_feels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baskerville Research Facility, Captivity, Depression, Escape, Faun Sherlock Holmes, Fawn Sherlock Holmes, Fawnlock, Gun Violence, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, M/M, Manipulation, Porn With Plot, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Unethical Experimentation, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26916811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_4_feels/pseuds/all_4_feels
Summary: 'Nothing ever happens to me,' John thinks, until a mysterious deer-man stumbles into the Stamfords' summer garden on his week-long holiday in Dartmoor.Note: This fic is currently discontinued! If you would like to personally continue writing this story, please contact me at all4feels@gmx.com!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

'Mike's wasting his generosity on me,' John Watson thought as he drove his rented Land Rover up and down the long, winding roads of Dartmoor. His former fellow student, Mike Stamford had given him the use of an old summer cottage that the man had inherited from their parents. Well, thrust it upon him, more like. Mike had insisted that he take at least a week's holiday in nature in the back end of Devon. "And I guarantee you'll come back a changed man," the man had said with a mysterious twinkle in their eyes, just like the man was wont to do. It had reminded him of their time together back at St Bartholomew's Hospital when Stamford had led him into all sorts of fun trouble. The man meant well, he supposed, just like his therapist, Ella, who had highly encouraged the trip, saying that he should write into his yet untouched blog about the things that happened there. "Nothing ever happens to me," he had replied, feeling the heavy truth in his own words pull himself into an even deeper gloom. 

Nevertheless, John was now on his way to a few days of quiet solitude in the moors. Not that he thought that it would make any difference to his pathetic life, but he was going through the motions to please his friend and his therapist. Besides, at least it couldn't be any worse than staring at the four walls of his depressing bedsit back in London. 'At least there is plenty of nature to write about,' he thought, smirking with grim irony as he slowed down to a small herd of roe deer that were crossing the road. The does appeared vigilant as they kept glancing around themselves and at him. On a grassy hill yonder he could see a handsomely antlered buck watching their harem. It was the middle of July, and the roes were entering their rut. He knew this, because Mike had told him. The man had suggested that he take part in a deer hunt, which he had flat-out refused. He had seen enough death and suffering during his deployment in Afghanistan and was hard-pressed to cause harm again to another living being. 

As John drove past the Baskerville Military Base, the memories of the circumstances which had led to his discharge were once again brought to the forefront of his mind. Aware of its existence, he had made a mental note to steer clear of the damn place even before leaving for the trip. Though he held no particular grudge towards the forces as such, nor regretted his time in their service, he had no desire to reminisce about the injury that had stripped his life of its purpose and meaning. Fortunately the base was closed off by a patch of thick forest, which the cottage abutted on the other side. Pulling the car into the driveway, he couldn't help but feel a tentative amount of delighted surprise. The small, white-plastered house completed with a grey thatched roof, stone fence and picturesque garden with its flowerbeds, tree swing and old well was really quite charming. 'I could disappear in here,' he thought as he unloaded his luggage and supplies from the trunk, the Browning in his suitcase momentarily forgotten for the first time in months. 


	2. Chapter 2

'Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ human,' Sherlock cursed to himself as he fled through the shadowy woods, trying desperately to lose the chaser on his tail. The plan had otherwise worked perfectly, with Stapleton secretly removing the tracking microchip from the back of his neck and Frankland telling him exactly when to move and where to go into hiding. The one thing that the man hadn't remembered to tell him, however, was that there was also a guard on the _forest's_ side of the deer enclosure, as well as on the facility's side. Oh, if only humans would pay more attention to detail! 'I will _not_ mate with some goddamn doe,' he thought bitterly, zigzagging among the trees, pushing his body to its limits as he ran as fast as his scrawny feet would carry him. 'Like... like some... some _animal_! I won't do it! I _won't_!' 

Just as Sherlock finished the thought, there was another loud 'bang' and then a bullet whizzed past him, only barely missing his left leg. The bastard wasn't even trying to kill him, just to stop him from escaping! He would rather die than go back into that cursed glass cell where he had spent the most of his miserable life, only getting out when they would take him to the laboratories to be used for running tests and experiments, and for a few weeks in the late summers when he would get his only taste of fresh air as they took him up and outside into the enclosure to spend the rut with the rest of his "kind". Every year they would try to make him mount a female deer, and every year he would refuse. He weren't so naive as to believe that they hadn't put the essence that they occasionally forced out of him into good use, but so far they hadn't managed to create another being like him. At least, he didn't think so. As Dr Stapleton often told him, he was unique. Other times, on the other hand, they would insert essence into _him_ , though he didn't quite understand the purpose of that. He was a buck, for crying out loud! 

Blinded by the anger that bubbled up at the blatant unfairness of his treatment, Sherlock almost missed it. Dewer's Hollow... his birthplace. Or, at least that's where they had found him, all those years ago. A mere fawn, newborn and weak as a kitten, just lying there in the cold ground and squeaking, crying for a mother that was nowhere to be found. He himself had no recollection of his mother, only of the warm feeling of being wrapped up inside Dr Frankland's coat. The man had saved him, or at least, that's what they had all always told him. And he had believed in that story, wholeheartedly, up until he had been older and bright enough to realize the misery of his own circumstances. He didn't quite understand why Frankland and Stapleton had offered to help him. He suspected that it had something to do with all those "sensibilities". Perhaps they took pity on him, because at the end of the day they got to go back to their own homes and families, while he remained put at the facility. That cell was all he had. He didn't much like the thought of being pitied, but if it bought him the freedom that he had longed for for so long, he would endure any amount of humiliation. After all, he was used to it. 

Coming to a halt on the other side of the hollow, Sherlock twirled around, peering over the misty pit to see if the guard was still coming after him. Fortunately there was no sign of his chaser, must have lost them in the dark thicket. His own eyesight was vastly advanced compared to theirs, after all. Briefly he contemplated whether he should go wait into one of the large holes that decorated the rock wall. He knew that some of the humans considered the place to be cursed, and had heard the rumors that circulated within the facility. Hah, so typical of those idiots t-... 'Huh,'... Startling, he realized that there was another soldier at the bottom of the hollow! Freezing in horror, he gaped at the man that grinned at him gloatingly before slowly raising their gun at him. He bolted again. 'N-no, no, no, _no_ ,' he pleaded desperately in his mind, panting as he ran for his life, hearing the soldier chasing after him, shooting at him. He could already see the edge of the forest, the moonlight filtering through the trees, concealing the cottage where he was supposed to be hiding. Just a few metres... 'Just a few more metres,' he thought... when suddenly pain exploded in the side of his right thigh as a bullet grazed it. Crying out, he stumbled, looking down to assess the damage... and then... ' _smack_ '! 


	3. Chapter 3

John's days were spent in peaceful idleness, occasionally embroidered by leisurely labour. He tended to the garden, chopped wood for the fireplace, wandered in the moors with his makeshift walking stick and visited the nearby Grimpen village where he ate lunch at the Cross Keys Inn. He blogged about the things he saw, about the animals, the impressive tors and the other quirks of nature. The one place he hadn't set foot in, however, were the dense woods that separated him from the symbol of his past. Sometimes he could hear the cars come and go out on the road, and sometimes... well, sometimes he would sit atop the nearest rock outcrop and gaze down upon the vale, telling himself that he was there to admire the general view and not because he wanted to see what went on at the base. 

Then one evening, after having already spent the better part of the week at the cottage, it all changed. John had just made tea and settled into a rocking chair on the porch to enjoy it, when suddenly there were something that he could've sworn to be gunshots echoing from the forest. Acting purely on instinct, he lowered the cup onto the table and rushed back inside for his pistol that was safely tucked underneath his pillow. Checking that the case was fully loaded, he drew in a long, deep breath before stalking back to the front door, peeking out from behind the frame. The firing had ceased, and instead an oppressive silence now hung heavy in the air above the garden. Slowly the realization dawned upon him. Of course... He was next to an army base, after all. They must be having shooting practices. 

Annoyed at the disruption of his peace, John was just about to close the door behind him, the tea forgotten onto the porch, when suddenly there was loud rustling from the trees and then a heavy 'thump' as something fell with a flash onto the grass behind the well. There was a pained groan, and then nothing. Startled, John whipped around, gun at the ready as he peered towards the source of the noise. "H-hello," he called out tentatively, the settled darkness and the slowly gathering fog making it hard to see much of anything. When there was no answer, he stepped out of the door again, cautiously descending the steps down from the porch, eyes alert and scanning for any signs of a threat. Tiptoeing across the yard, heart hammering in his chest, nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him as he made his way around the well. 

There, on the grass, in the Stamfords' summer garden, lay flat on their stomach a naked man. Only... this man had _antlers_. Utterly shaken by the realization, John's eyes fixated upon the black mop of curly hair on the man's head and their, startlingly, equally black nose. And... the ears! There were two large, deer-like ears jutting out from the spots where a human's ears should be. Feeling suddenly weak in the knees, his alarmed gaze roamed down the length of the man's body, taking note of the short and sleek, light brown coat that covered their skin from head to toe, excepting the greyish face and the fuzzy buttocks that were a screaming tone of white. And the legs... Good God, the legs were deer's legs! Long and slender, like the rest of the man's frame, yet powerful and ended at two black, cloven hooves. Upon closer inspection he could see that one of the man's muscular thighs was bleeding, grazed by something... A bullet...? Had this... this creature been what they'd been shooting at...? 

The man-... deer appeared unconscious, sprawled out on the grass, and John's focus shifted to one of the antlers that seemed to be missing one of its two points. The poor creature must have run into a tree while dashing through the woods, trying to get away from the bullets. Chancing a step closer, he could indeed make out a trickle of blood running down the side of that strange, angular face. The doctor in him awakening at the notion of another... well, living being in peril, he unloaded his pistol and tucked it safely into the back of his jeans, scanning the dark forest for any signs of the gunmen before slowly approaching their victim on the ground. Kneeling down beside the other, his gaze fixed itself upon the man's arms that lay limp above their head. Taking notice of the long, delicate fingers that ended at black, hard-looking tips, he reached out to grab one thin wrist, feeling for the pulse. Luckily it was beating away healthily beneath his fingertips. Lowering the large hand gently back down, he grasped the man's shoulder instead, shaking it tentatively. "H-hey," he called out, staring at the two long-lashed eyes that remained persistently closed. "Hey," he tried again louder and harder, clutching both shoulders, to no avail. 

Coming to the conclusion that the creature was indeed well and truly knocked out, John pulled them up, turning them onto their side. Despite the deer-man's notable size, it was no big feat due to their thinness that bordered on the state of malnourishment. Rolling the man onto their back on the dewy grass, an astonished gasp escaped his lips as the moonlight hit their front just right, revealing the sight of their distinctly humanlike, lightly muscled torso. Dusky pink nipples peeked out from short, light-coloured fur that covered the man's slightly plump chest and concave stomach, all the way down to their surprisingly wide hips where the hairs turned much darker and thicker to conceal their groin. Blushing despite himself, he tore his eyes from the man's crotch back to their breast that rose and fell slowly in the rhythm of their breathing. Paying a glance to the man's otherworldly, unconscious face, he decided that the bullet wound had to be had a look at. As he wrapped his black shooting jacket around the strange being and, more painstakingly than he would have liked to admit, hoisted them up onto his good shoulder, he laid one last look at the unnervingly quiet forest, thinking that perhaps new and unexpected things had yet ceased to happen in his life, after all. 


End file.
